UNMASKED: Volume 2
Page 1
Unmasked
Volume Two
Cassia Leo
Contents
Copyright
About the Book
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Thank you!
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About the Author
UNMASKED
Volume Two
by Cassia Leo
cassialeo.com
First Edition
Copyright © 2014 by Cassia Leo
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without expressed written permission from the author; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
All characters and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
About the Book
Unmasked: Volume Two
The continuation of the Unmasked series from New York Times bestselling author Cassia Leo.
Who can be trusted? Who’s wearing a mask?
I left my former life – and my mask – behind.
Running from a past where I was born unloved. A past where I was betrayed by love.
Running from an organization with limitless power and stealth. Running for my life.
I never expected to find love on the run. Not in a tiny seaside town on an island in the middle of nowhere.
Not without my mask.
But it seems as if my sad story is being rewritten with someone else’s pen. But whose pen is it?
This question haunts me day and night. And I get my answer on a perfectly decadent evening. When I come home to find my bedroom perfumed with the scent of death.
He’s here.
Chapter One
Out of the darkness and into the light, a new Alex Carmichael is reborn.
I repeat this mantra in my head as I enter my new home. Drawing in deep breaths, I attempt to sooth myself after a stressful trip to the market, in broad daylight. A few minutes of this, then I head for the kitchen.
The kitchen in this one-hundred-fourteen-year-old cottage has an odd smell, like wet cement. It could be the crumbling plaster on the walls, or the slightly damp wood floors, which never seem to dry due to the humidity.
I open a tiny cupboard above the sink and put away my six new drinking glasses, purchased at a shop a few blocks away, which sells cheap housewares. Six drinking glasses for €1,49 and six dinner plates for €2,00. My first day on this tiny island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, I was a little confused by the comma in the place of the decimal point and the exchange rate. But three days in, I can do the math in my head now.
I put away the plates in the same cupboard, then I open the refrigerator to put away the fruits and vegetables I got at the open-air market just around the corner. I try not to think about the incident with the prickly pear from my last day in Los Angeles. But I also can’t let myself forget. I need to remember that, however slim, there is a possibility that Daimon is still alive. It’s possible I was so distraught that I missed a faint pulse in his neck. I must remember this so I can be ready for him.
I grab an apple out of the brown paper bag and just as I set it down on the shelf in the fridge, a knock at the door startles me. Slowly, I close the refrigerator door and lift the back of my shirt to slide my knife out of its holster. Stepping into the tiny living room, I glance at the two windows on each side of the front door, but I can’t see anyone. My heart races as I step closer. Finally, I slowly push aside the cover on the peephole and peer through.
I let out a deep sigh. It looks like a neighbor here to welcome me with a bottle of wine. I want to pretend I’m not home, but I can’t. I left my mask behind in L.A. No more hiding.
I slip the knife back into its holster and open the door. The man standing before me looks somewhat familiar. I think I may have seen him cutting some branches on a tree just down the lane.
“Hola! Mucho gusto. Bienvenido a La Palma. Soy tu nuevo vecino, Nicolas.”
I stare into his shiny green eyes for a moment, trying to remember one of the few Spanish phrases I have memorized, but I’m dumbfounded. “No habla español. I’m Alyssa.”
I don’t speak Spanish. I’m Alyssa.
I chose the name Alyssa because it sounds close enough to Alex that I think it will be easy for me to get used to. And it sounds innocent. I need people to think I’m innocent. Because I was innocent, until I invited Daimon into my apartment.
“You must be American,” he replies, his lips curling into a charming grin.
His eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles and his skin is golden and tanned. He must work in the sun and he must be at least thirty years old. I don’t even know how old Daimon was. Is?
“Yes, I’m American. I’m here on holiday.”
“Oh, what a shame you’re only here temporarily. Are you leaving soon?” He tucks the bottle of wine behind his back, as if my response will determine whether or not I’m worthy of a welcome gift.
“No, I actually don’t know when I’m leaving. Could be a week or a month. Maybe longer. I’m … a photographer. I go wherever inspiration calls.”
Though I’ve already taken the time to set up my new persona by purchasing an expensive camera and photography supplies, saying the words I’m a photographer aloud feels strange. The whole purpose of leaving the States was so that I could take off my mask. Finally be myself. And, in essence, I’ll be hiding in plain sight. The artist disguise feels at odds with this philosophy.
“A photographer.” He raises his eyebrows as he repeats these words, then he pulls the bottle out from behind his back. “I brought you a welcome gift. It’s from my cousin’s vineyard. I got in last night and there were four cases waiting for me.”
The skeptic in me wonders if this guy works for Daimon and he’s trying to poison me. The safe thing would be to take the bottle of wine and thank him. Then flush it down the sink the moment he’s gone. But when do I ever play it safe?
At that moment, a black man in a dark hoodie passes by and waves at me. Why is everyone here so damn friendly?
I wave back at the man, then I take the bottle from my new neighbor’s hand and flash him my best half-albino smile. “Thank you very much. Would you like to come inside and enjoy a glass?”
He grins at me for a moment in silence. He wasn’t expecting an invitation so soon.
“I would love to.”
I open the steel storm door wide and he gives me a gentlemanly nod as he passes over the threshold. There should be a similar test for traitors as there is for vampires. Like, if you feed them garlic, they’re forced to tell the truth. Or if you splash them with holy water, they instantly give up the name of the person they’re working for.
Oh, Alex. You really should stop watching so much TV.
My father’s voice is clear in my head. The memory makes my chest tighten with a rush of anger. I set the bottle of wine on top of the tiny, square kitchen table and head for the cupboard where I just put away the drinking glasses.
“Please have a seat,” I say, reaching into the cupboard. “Oh, shoot!”
“What’s wrong?”
I turn around and he’s halfway between standing and sitting in a chair at the table.
I smile at the awkwardness of his pose. “I forgot to buy a corkscrew when I went to the store today.”
; He chuckles as he stands up and grabs the bottle of wine off the table. “That’s okay. I can open it without a corkscrew. Do you have a sharp knife?”
He takes the two long strides it takes until he’s almost face to face with me. I stare at the bottle of wine in his hand until I remember I have to be confident. Looking up into his eyes, I’m caught off guard by the inquisitive look on his face. One eyebrow cocked, self-assured smile, just waiting for me to produce a sharp knife. Probably so he can stab me in the heart.
I let out a coquettish giggle. “Of course I have a knife.”
My hand disappears behind me and whips out my knife in a flash. He scrunches his eyebrows together, dissatisfied with this display.
“You carry a knife on you?”
“Single woman in a new town.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, then he slowly reaches for my knife. I smile as he gently slips the handle out of my grip and turns toward the sink. He holds the top of the bottle over the basin and, in one swift motion, he chops off the top two inches from the neck of the bottle. A good third of a cup of red wine spills out and into the sink, but he rights the bottle before anymore is lost.
I step forward and peer into the sink at the few chunks of glass and red liquid splattered over the porcelain and can’t help but feel impressed. “Quite crafty, aren’t you…?”
“Nicolas,” he reminds me. “But you may call me Nick.”
And how could I forget? Nicolas with the perfectly bronze skin and shiny green eyes. And the fascinating knife skills. I’ll have to keep an eye on you, Nick.
He smiles then reaches for a towel on the counter. “I’ll clean it up.”
I try to take the towel from his hand, but he doesn’t let go. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll clean it up.” His smile softens as he lets go of the cloth. “You can pour the wine.”
He reaches around me and grabs the drinking glasses, then he grabs the bottle and takes them both to the table. I mop up shards of glass and wine with the dish towel and toss them all, towel included, into the garbage bin beneath the sink. I wash my hands and take a seat across the table from Nick.
He slides my glass of wine across the table. “To new places,” he says, raising his in the air, “good lighting,” —he winks—“and new friends. Salud!”
We clink glasses and I bring mine to my lips slowly, waiting for him to take the first sip. Then it dawns on me that it doesn’t matter if he drinks that whole glass. Since I was too busy cleaning up the mess in the sink, I didn’t watch him pour my wine. I can’t drink this.
I set the glass down gently on the table as he takes a couple of gulps.
“You don’t drink wine?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I’ve never actually drunk alcohol before and my father told me never to accept a drink from a stranger unless they too are willing to drink from the same glass.”
I feel a twist of regret in my stomach for bringing my father into this.
“Your father sounds like a smart man.” He reaches for my glass of wine and downs the whole thing in a few gulps, then he sets it down on the table looking very satisfied with himself. “See. No poison.”
I smile as I reach for the half-empty bottle and pour us both another glass. I have to blend in. I have to immerse myself in the island culture. Drinking a glass or two of wine per day is supposed to be good for you.
Still, I wait for him to take the first sip, then I take mine. The wine is acidic and musky with a sweet berry finish. I like it.
“So what kind of things do you photograph? Nature, architecture, people…?” he asks.
Though his Spanish accent is very noticeable, he speaks English quite well. And his voice is smooth and crisp. I can understand every word he says.
I take another sip as I contemplate his question, then I flash him a girly smile. “People.”
As expected, this response makes him feel comfortable enough to allow his gaze to linger on my albino left eye and the white patch of skin that covers most of the left side of my face. A photographer who looks like me would be expected to shun people. And the old Alex most certainly did. But Alyssa is different. She embraces her flaws.
It makes you different. Different is good. Daimon’s voice is still so clear in my mind. His words so soothing. How is it that the man who killed my father, the man I killed just four days ago, still has the power to fill me with such warmth and longing? The very thought of him should send me into a tirade. He deceived me! He used me and my body and he didn’t even have the guts to confess he murdered my father.
He also didn’t have the courage to kill me.
Or so he claimed. I don’t know what to believe anymore. But that’s why I’m here on this island. I’m going to find out if anything Daimon said to me the night of the masquerade ball was true.
I drain the rest of the wine from my glass and set it down. “I photograph anything, but mostly people. I do portraits. Would you like your portrait taken?”
His gaze continues to roam over my face, then he smiles. “I would like that.”
“Excellent.” I fan my face as I suddenly feel flushed. “What do you do for a living?”
“I make sunglasses.” I let out a soft chuckle and he shakes his head in dismay. “I know. It’s not as glamorous as being a beautiful photographer who travels the world, but it pays well.”
“And you’re here on vacation?”
“Yes. I don’t know for how long. I’m staying in my Great-Aunt Marta’s house. She passed away eight years ago, so the house has been empty. I’m going to relax for a little while. Restore the house and maybe the garden. I’m … I’m trying to, as they say, find myself.”
“At your age?” I clap my hand over my mouth and he laughs.
“I’m only thirty-two. How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
Most women lie to make themselves younger. This whole situation with Daimon aged me two years in the span of four days. I knew he was bad for me.
Bad in all the right ways? asks a sexy French voice in my head.
No!
Oh, God. I’m going nuts.
Nick stands up suddenly and this snaps me out of my Daimon-haze. “Are you leaving?”
“Yes. It’s almost sundown and I still have a water heater to install. Or I won’t be able to shower tomorrow.”
I stand up and follow him toward the door. “That would be unfortunate.”
“For who?” he asks quickly and I hesitate. He laughs as he reaches for the doorknob. “I’m kidding, Alyssa. It was very nice meeting you. I’m sure you’ll be seeing me very soon for that portrait. Shall I bring my Heart of the Ocean necklace?”
I grab the edge of the door as he steps outside and does a half-turn so I can see him from the side with the sun setting behind him. He has a great ass.
“Alyssa?”
My gaze snaps up, away from his ass to his face, and he’s grinning. “Yes, sure. That would be great. See you later.”
I close the door and lean up against it, savoring the way the cool steel feels against my skin through the thin fabric of my T-shirt. I’m flustered by his good looks and sense of humor. He’s so congenial. But, still, all I can think of right now is Daimon.
What would he think of me having a drink with another man? He would not like it one bit. I guess it’s a good thing he’s dead.
Chapter Two
His body is so solid. That’s all I can think as my fingers bump along his ab muscles and down to his thick erection. I wrap my fingers around him and he smiles as the shower water cascades over his glistening muscles.
“Grip it firmly, chérie.”
I tighten my grip on his solid girth and slowly slide my hand down the velvety length. Stepping forward, I press the tip against my clit, then I plunge my hips forward so his cock glides between my lips. I moan and he wraps his arm around the small of my back to hold me still. I tilt my head back and he sucks hard on the column of my throat. That’s going to leave a mark.
“Ow.”
“Does it hurt?” he asks, as he stretches me.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He grips my ass and pushes himself deeper inside me. I yelp in pain and he runs his tongue along the crease of my mouth.
“Scream for me, Alex.”
He pushes me up against the wall of the shower and his pelvic bone grinds into my clit as I cry out in pain and ecstasy. “Daimon!”
“Louder,” he growls, sinking his teeth into my neck.
“Daimon!”
“I’m going to destroy you.”
He licks the tender skin on my neck where he just bit me, tracing his tongue all the way up to my jawline then to my lips. He takes my top lip into his mouth and sucks hard as he grinds against my clit. The pulling and the grinding is driving me insane.
“Oh, please, Daimon. Don’t stop.”
He curls his hips further, digging deeper inside me, crushing my swollen bud with the force of each thrust. The one leg I’m standing on begins to weaken and I coil my arms tightly around his neck for support.
“I want you to come when I come.”
“I’m going to come now,” I breathe a warning, but he doesn’t slow down. My leg trembles and my stomach muscles begin to clench. “I’m coming!”
“Not until I say so!”
“I’m coming! I can’t stop! Oh, God!”
He grabs a chunk of hair on the back of my head and thrusts his tongue into my mouth as he pounds my pussy. I release guttural, high-pitched screams as he continues to drive into my sensitive clit. Then he groans into my mouth as he comes inside me.